Retract
by checkerboardBeast
Summary: Hazy. All is a little bit more then hazy. He can feel breaths on his spine. It s not human. He s gone.


The recession has begun, and Will can feel the way his skin crawls. Has been able to, for a long time now. It crawls in whispers and dripping water, and the faint sound he hears when he closes his eyes and has learned to describe only as a stat walking. It is constant.

Will just can`t help but laugh at this. His only stability comes from the stable absence of it. And he swears to himself that the walls loom and gnarl when he turns his back.

The nightmares too, they leave fresh marks or red bleeding lines afterwards, and the exhaustion of knowing that he doesn`t know his mind that well any more takes it`s toll. He used to be able to navigate in his own mind with ease, like walking on glass, and he could find who he was, how he was, where he was and when he was. After the fist cases he walked inside the glass. He found bits and scattered shards of what wasn`t he, and everything was slightly skewed and tinted. Glass.

By the time the angel maker talked to him his mind was diluted glass filled with cobwebs, upon which ink dripped and when he tried to find himself, there were faces and whispers of different direction, and he heard splashing when he moved through. The black ink would stain his consciousness and echo oh so loud in the space between the fords of his skull bone.

But, in the most recent nights the ink was to his mouth and suffocation. diluted by glass it shied like murky water and Will could see through it f he tried, he could see his outstretched hand under the ink, distorted and pale.

He would sweat, but it would feel like, instead of salty liquid from his pores it was him, Will, _himself_, pouring out oh his body. He`d sat like that in his bed and he had felt like he had completely flowed away onto the ground, seeping in to the floorboards in a desperate attempt of escaping what he was obliged to do.

But he breaks when he is told that no one sits at the table.

When no one sits at the table.

He almost screams and he realizes he too far gone, he has known too much.

And he freezes up. Panic. Blindness. Like molten lead poured into hes bones and he jitters. Spasms.

There is nothing.

There is everything.

HE does not hear.

Or see.

Or smell.

Or feel.

Just twitches.

And breathes.

(inhale and shake)

(exhale with a voice)

(sound like something you do`nt realize

_(And Will has no power over himself)_

.

And then he feels a hand on his cheekbone. It`s so far away. Will is flying.

He hears something, and he realizes it is a voice he trusts and he comes down, but there is fog and he still is not completely there.

It tells him to smile.

He obeys. He smiles. Or, he thinks he does.

He realizes it`s Hannibal. He _knows_ the it had been Hannibal`s voice somehow, but the realization that it _is_ Hannibal somehow comes as a separate entity. A different realization. The mind is hazed.

Hannibal grips his shoulders(and Will feels himself clear up, the warm hands wield into his shoulder bones and he sees now). He is guided over to a chair and sat down. Hannibal looms over him. Speaks softly. And it makes Will feel better. Lighter. (and still there is haze, and Hannibal wants it there, and will can`t climb inside his head to find that out)

The hands leave his shoulders, and that takes away a fragile illusion. Will realizes his hair clings to his face and neck with sweat(himself, he`s pouring). His heart beats oddly strong and fast and his vision is hazed and so is his mind. But he can think now. He can think now.

Lecter leaves. A door closes.

Will is alone, but he checks the chair where Hobbs sat to make sure. He sees no one. (his heart sinks in deeper for himself)

It takes him seconds to realize that the gleam on the table is not a reflection of light, but rather objects.

He realizes what he must do. Alana. In danger. Hannibal had said so. Hannibal would be there. Will needed to talk to him. His mind was wrong. Hannibal would know what to do, he would.

When Will tries to get up. He stumbles, falls. The world spins some times. But the ground keeps slithering, even when he manages to get up again. He walk over to the other side of the table. A gun. Keys.

He takes both. Heads for the door. He wobbles with steps, and his feet almost follow the slithering of the ground.

.

The fresh night of the air clears his head just slightly, just enough so he can walk in a more capable manner. The sweat(himself, he`s pouring) freezes to his scalp. His breath is a fog in front of his eyes and he sees fleeting shapes and then the ground again.

Alana. In danger. Hannibal had said so. Hannibal would be there. Will needed to talk to him. His mind was wrong.

The woods are like towers and towers of black and he sees impossible footprints in spaces where he puts his own, but there is something behind him and he doesn`t need to look to know. He walks. A branch scratches his face and the feeling is distant, he forgets to hiss.

When the edge of the forest comes, it shoves him into the field with a breath.

Hobbs is there, by the house.

He wants to shoot Hobbs. Will has to kill him again. His hands shake too much to shoot from this far, he can`t see clear enough from this far and it breathes on his neck to go further, closer to Hobbs.

.

They stand next to each other, hallucination and the one who sees it(that`s how will sees it, his mind is wrong)

They talk to each other, hallucination and the one who sees it.

Hobbs` words cut deep, because Will knows that, somehow, all of it comes from his own mind. It stick to the edges of his being like wet paper. And he knows he could never shake them off again.

Then Will shoots.

And he thinks only one thing before his head kisses the snow next to Hobbs`

But it fades.

And so does he.


End file.
